Translucent Luminescence
by planet p
Summary: These are the things she knows. Augustine, after a fashion.


These are the things she knows, the certainties that get her through her days and nights:

She has made her studio in the backyard, of an old greenhouse, and sometimes, in the mornings, when the fog is bright and alive and almost luminescent, translucent, with life and unknowable possibilities, she will walk across the ground barefoot, just to feel the sting of cold alongside the tenderness of the soft, lush grass that is her lawn.

In winter, the doors and windows may stick, and sometimes, though she is feeling weak, as if she were a puppet whose strings have been severed, with now no more movement, no more orchestration of her self, her whereabouts in this life and universe, she will open the windows and doors and invite her breath back in, invite in the air that she needs to breathe.

She does not like the drone of the supermarket she frequents late at night; the light is gaudy and from the moment it touches her, she feels robbed of something vital, perhaps even of some small measure of life. The constant hum is a dirge in the back of her mind and the sadness of it, like an idling car, drives tears to prickle the backs of her eyes, where she cannot wipe them away. She will reach for something solid, anything at all, just to lay her hands on something, to keep her from melting into the nothingness, from floating away like the mist of her breath in cold, cold weather. She will hold something she has taken from the shelf for a long time, with no intentions to purchase it, but just for purchase, to assure herself that she is still here, still living and breathing and very much alive. Sometimes she will do this more than once; she doesn't care about the stares, her only desire is to make it through this experience to another.

And sometimes, sometimes she dreams things that aren't real, cannot possibly be truth. No longer. She doesn't, then, jolt herself forcibly from sleep on some artificial pretence, or great pains of horror and unfathomability. She simply allows the dream its passage, allows time to tick by as it would in her dream and the realities of her life and her constant sadness trickle away as if they were never real.

Sometimes, she believes these are her best moments in life, the ones that aren't even real. But only to her, and truthfully, to all others, unreal, fantasy.

She does not care.

.

They are sitting in the car, the same car he had bundled her into when he had taken her, but in this instance the car is perfectly fine, unblemished, and they are waiting, sitting in the perfect car in the parking lot in the middle of the day, waiting.

She doesn't know what they're waiting for. She isn't afraid. It merely strikes her as though they may have left off in the middle of some dreadfully _normal_ conversation and now neither of them is keen to resume that conversation, or perhaps they had been arguing, or talking of things they should not have been, such as criminal activities.

She looks across at him, thinking how she would like to taste coffee again though she doesn't understand why it feels as though it's been years, whole light years, since she has last done so – in the waking world, she has not had coffee in over two years – and that is the moment that she realizes, oh yes, the car was never this perfect on the occasion they had to meet, and he, he is dead. She is only dreaming.

When she had begun to understand, she had been so frozen by her horror, her terror, that she had lay down and submitted herself only to the gathering of her next breath. She had not boldly taken her feet and declared that she would stand with him in whatever stand they cared to take. This was her life at stake, oh yes, and so she'd shied away, remembering that life was only so tenuous, that it could come and go in the blinking of a star as the sun rose and just fade away.

Now, she did not know why she had not fought. Her own life was important, of course, but was not his, also? Yes, why had she not thought of that? Why had she not questioned his judgment? Who are you to think me so important, and what of my own convictions on the matter? If you should care for me so, would it not be polite, in turn, to find some investment therein worth endearing myself to, as a kind gesture, one might suppose?

She had not been afraid of him then, but rather of life, or the tenuousness of life. And she had been thinking, like him, or her own life. She was the one being pursued, the one they wanted to _stop_. She had been… blind.

Now she felt slighted, the strength of it rivaling that of any trivial misdemeanor committed by a lover or loved one. She wanted to argue, to make some sense of it all, to see sense where, before, always, there was always confusion and fear. Life was life and death was death, too true, but she had been a party to _someone else's_ death. And that, she thought, was not, had not been, would never be, her purview. And so, she was slighted for life. Just slightly.

She looks across at him now and she does not think of coffee, but rather of how he is no longer alive, how this cannot be, how these few moments in dreaming are now his _only_ moments, and she is filled with indescribable sadness and pain mixed with an overwhelming sense of possibility and longing. He is dead, yet he is here, with her, they are together, and she might state, now, that things might have gone otherwise, that perhaps they rightfully should have, or she might simply abide, and allow him this time. The time to feel his life slipping away from him, like so much water through his fingers; the time to find acceptance in that, to find purchase in the slipping away of that time, to envisage peace, at the end of it all. If he would think to find peace, a job well done. She does not know, truthfully, but it is a nice thought, still, and she thinks, were it her, she would very much like that thought, the idea of peace, gentle stillness.

She has had time, over the years, to imagine him all manner of things, but she settles, instead, for kindness in her heart. She wants, above all, to still be herself, a kind person, and so she is. In this moment, she is that kind person, the person she wants to be. And he might, in turn, be the person he wants to be. For just a moment.

She is looking at him, and her kindness seems to swell in her heart until it is painful, and then it breaks, shatters all to tiny, miniscule pieces she knows she can never put back together. It has been so long since they last laid eyes on one another, yet she is thinking mostly of her own eyes. She doesn't have friends nowadays; he was the last friend she ever made, if it could be said that they were friends and they had _made_ friends. She _knows_ people, that is all, and some of them know her, also. She doesn't have a lover, has not had a lover in forever; she is still waiting. For what, she can't say. Something, anything. But, she thinks, he must have loved her. Somehow, without her knowing, this person, this man, had loved her with his whole heart, with all his being, enough, even, to accept death on her behalf.

The thought doesn't anger her, upset her or distress her. She doesn't find it creepy, and in this moment, it is not even sad. In this moment, it occurs to her that they are here, together, that she is here and so is he. And it has been a long, long time since someone has touched her such as he touched her. She thinks it's probably the same thing for him. Well, actually, it most certainly has to be. She is alive, and he is dead, and this is the twilight in between. So, yes, a very long time, then.

She moves only to place her hand over his, resting neatly on his thigh. He is always, was always, so very proper. Sometimes, she wishes she could be half as proper as he was. That she could sit up straight instead of slouched, or hold her head just so, or say the things she wanted to, instead of the things that wanted to be said. That amount of discipline is such a thing, such a ritual or vigil, is too much for her, though, and she retires of the thought most often, setting the notion aside to just do what she can. She is, sad as it is to say, only human. A perishable, and not indestructible. Of course. Sometimes, even, she will grow tired on the way from one place to another and she will take a seat on the hallway floor, with her back to the wall, and just allow herself to feel her place in that space, with those molecules, and the air in her lungs and the sunlight that allows her to see the world around her.

Today, in this dream, is a good day. She is hardly tired at all. She hasn't touched another person in so long, it almost feels foreign. She feels inexplicably like crying, or laughing. Or perhaps like running away. When she goes down to the shops, she will set her money on the counter and that is that. There is no touching, accidental or otherwise. Sometimes, she cannot even stand to touch another person. Sometimes, it even pains her to touch another living thing. And at other times, she wishes for nothing more. It is a painful life, living between these two extremes but never in between, in the beautiful twilight of normality.

Sometimes, she likes to talk, at other times, not. Talking can be such a chore, and sometimes it even feels pretentious. When she feels like this, she doesn't talk. She doesn't even hum. It is only when it gets too much that she starts to speak again, when she must hear something, anything, speaking to her in her native tongue. When she must hear herself speak to know that she is capable of such complexity of action and articulation; that she is not just a thing that is and does, but that she thinks and feels and can be. Or she will sing. Today, however, she realizes she has forgotten what his voice sounds like. She would like to hear it again. She would like very much to fall in love with the sound of someone's voice and as he is here and he is one of her rare visitors, she thinks that it should be his voice she would like to adore today.

Yes, that would be nice.

So, she is holding her hand on his and he has only just noticed her, it seems; her thoughts had preoccupied her mind and her time and she has only now seen that he has turned to glance at her with his funny eyes and she thinks they are funny because they make her want to smile and they are not her own eyes and that, somehow, is so much better. She is actually looking someone else in the eyes, and how long has it been exactly? She doesn't know, but it feels indescribably wonderful. She is just thinking this, only just beginning to allow the joy she feels to manifest inside her as a slow and steady warmth, when she realizes how dangerous it could be, how precarious her predicament has become, to feel and then not to feel, to feel so hollow inside that you are nothing, you are you but what you are is a thing, a nothing, without that which makes you happy and whole and something. And if this thing is him, when she wakes up from this dream and he is once more dead, and gone, she will be nothing. Just a thing.

She takes her hand from his, scolded. She will not be hurt, though she is, even now. She tries to tell herself this is silly, so silly. She wants to hear his voice, so very much, but she must not allow herself to hear, to take such joy in looking into another's eyes. She must still her beating heart and detach. Detach. Reaffirm her mindset, her position in this world, in this star chart. She is here, but she is not. In fact, she is lying in bed, sleeping. In her house, a house, in a suburb in a city in a county she has always resided in, on the planet known, by its human, English-speaking populace as "home", or Earth. The Known Universe.

She is not really here. With him. He is just… her imagination, a culmination of her memories, thoughts and desires. A possibility, but only in her dreams. He is not himself.

Her eyes fill up with tears that blur her vision. She can no longer see _him_, only the vague suggestion of another being, perhaps another human being, another person, but it may not be him, it may be anyone, except that it is, and she knows this. The stillness tells her it is him, if only in her imagination. This is how he was, how he still is, in this place.

She starts to sob and he goes on watching her, saying nothing, as she wishes for him to say nothing, nothing at all. Do not speak; allow me this moment. I am weak, and therefore capable of great strength, in turn. I will be strong, come the soon-time. I'm sorry I was never strong for you; I didn't know we'd known each other all along, without names or faces, we knew each other the way the planets know to remain in orbit and the stars keep on shining. And I am sorry, always, that my sorrow has outlasted most else I have been and will be. I think it shall have me in the end, it shall engulf me and I shall be Sorrow until I am nothing anymore, until I am Nothing and in being Nothing, I am once again Something. Recycled, repurposed, reused, reanimated, realigned. Something, anything.

She does not know if she believes in Again, or that they will meet again, as Somethings. Perhaps, perhaps not. A tiny part of her hopes so, and so she blinks the tears from her eyes and takes a big gulp of air and hopes to hold her composure for one moment, just to say this. Or, to infer such.

She takes his hand, holds it in her own hand. She wishes she could have held it before, when it would have counted. To have held someone's hand, as she never held her mother's or father's, when it counted. But she is holding it now, in her imagination, and that is all she has been allowed, all she will ever be allowed, so she takes what she can get. She holds his hand, she gazes into his eyes, and she does not ask his name. A name can mean a lot of things, and it can mean sorrow. She would not ask for sorrow, not today, not any other day. Even without a name, he has meant something. She does not need to know it; she is holding his hand, he is real. They are both real.

I am alive.

They are sitting in the car, in the parking lot, no longer waiting. This is the moment and this is their moment. They will have another moment once this one is gone, and then another still, but she does not know how many that will be and she doesn't care. She has this moment, she has him, her hand holding his. He sees she is holding his hand, he sees her and she sees him, sees he sees her. This is the perfect moment. She does not need to be weak or strong, she just needs to be. And she is. She is.

As she is thinking how wonderful it is to just be, to be Something, Someone, Together, she does something she had not been thinking of, not consciously. She pulls his hand nearer and places a small but tender kiss in his palm. It is such a strange thing to have done, to have done something without doing it but clearly having done it, that she doesn't think to wonder what it must mean at first and that is when she sees that he is wondering what it means and her heart seems to miss a beat, and in that tiny moment, that impossibly tiny moment of what could only be thought of as free will as the beating of one's heart is autonomic and automatic, is not something one has a say over, her mind is filled with a hundred, a thousand thoughts and feelings all at once, and yet occurring singularly. And then, then, though she does not understand it, she has moved close enough to touch his face, to place her whole hand against the curve of his face and feel the strength of the bones there and the softness of his skin against her own.

He cannot, then, be anything but real. Not some sad figment of her imagination, not merely just a thing. He is himself, and if he had a name, this would be the moment. If he had ever had a name and she had ever known it, she would speak it now.

She is terribly afraid, now that he is real, but he is not running from her, not pushing her from him or telling her to mind her distance, keep her hands to herself. He might be waiting or he might be watching or he might just be doing the same thing she's doing: feeling.

She chooses to believe that they are not so dissimilar, so maybe all three options are true. She is both frightened and wary, which would seem the better half of the two, in honesty, but she is also secretly thrilled. Real. He is real. Another person.

She takes her hand from his face, slowly, feeling reluctance in her movements, and though it requires a strength she didn't think she'd need, she is glad once it is done. She can see his face properly now and he looks fine. He still hasn't spoken, but she chooses to believe that is because he sees no particular need, not because he cannot. He _is_ real, and more than just her sad and lonely imagination. He has come to visit, to see her one last time.

A smile urges to be broken across her lips but she ushers it back. This is not the moment. This is a different moment. She isn't sure which, or for what, and then the press of emotion in her heart tells her. It is not the moment to merely be thankful, but also to offer thanks. She thinks about that, about offering him something, and that is when it strikes her what he must have missed for so very long. He has come to her, appeared to her, and she is dreadfully aware that she may very well be the only one he has visited, that there may be no others. They have both been missing the same thing, and it is something, in this moment, in this place, that they can offer one another. Their final goodbye.

Gazing into his eyes, she discerns no objection and decides that she must be very brave, and it is, actually, what she wants to do. More than anything else, in this moment. In a great many moments, as it happens.

She closes the small distance between them and kisses his cheek. He doesn't close his eyes, or stare at her in confusion or unhappiness, and she kisses his other cheek, the tip of his nose, his brow, a tiny spot under his eye that looks lonely and left out, the edge of his jaw, and then, finally, she kisses his lips. Her heart beats like a drum in her chest and she is finally ready to smile, to smile at this song of bravery her heart is conducting, but something is missing, some last, key ingredient. He hasn't kissed her back and she feels her heart start to sink, her bravery wavering, ready to flee. She waits and waits and she swears she can feel her heart breaking, ever so slowly shattering, and then she feels him take her hand and she knows he's telling her it's okay.

Finally, she smiles.

She rests her head against his shoulder, close to his warmth, and she observes the calming of her heart. When she wakes in her bed at long last, she is completely calm and at ease. For the first time in a long time, she is Christine. She is herself.


End file.
